Aidan
Rain drops splatter against my windshield as I pull up into the alley behind the bookstore. I’m debating whether I should go up to Charlotte’s door, when suddenly she opens the car door and slides into the passenger seat. Anxiety churns in my stomach.
I haven’t seen or communicated with Charlotte since last Thursday when she sent an apology text for our argument on Wednesday night. Other than the initial guilt I felt that evening, I haven’t had much time to reflect on what happened.
When I emerged from the Skull Caverns last night, bloodied and eyes twitching, guilt started to overwhelm me. I’m questioning every word I said during that exchange.
I’m feeling pretty harmed. What happened to your promise?
“It is wet out there,” Charlotte remarks as she adjusts her Sunflower Books sweatshirt. “Ooh, is one of those for me?” She points a finger at the Triple C cups in the center console. An olive branch.
“Yeah,” I reply. “They’re both London Fogs.”
She picks up the one closest to her and breathes in the scent deeply before taking a strong pull. “Oh my god, I love you. I needed this.”
I raise an eyebrow and stutter out, “Gr–gr–great. I got some scones too. Cheddar bacon.” I grab a paper bag from the back seat and hold it to her.
She doesn’t actually love me. She just said that because I did something for her.
She takes the bag and digs in. “You’re amazing!” She bites into the cheddar bacon scone and lets out a low moan that sends blood coursing through me. She swallows and continues, “So I figured we’d switch out who puts the signs out, so that one of us doesn’t have to get wet. How does that sound?”
I put the car in drive and we move off. “Sounds good.” She nods and buckles in. We drive for a few moments, the only sounds being the rain and the road noise since I turned down my music. Butterflies dance in my stomach. She’s mad at me. I know she’s mad at me.
Tilting her head, Charlotte peers at the entertainment center screen. “The Offspring?” She turns in her seat to face me, her damp ponytail falling to the side. “You like The Offspring?”
I lift one shoulder. “I do. Do you like them?”
She shifts back around, crossing her arms. “I’m more of a Kacey Musgraves fan myself, but I appreciate them. Do you like other punk bands? Like Green Day and Blink-182?”
I resist the urge to correct her that they are considered pop punk. “I love them. They’re not my favorite band though.”
“Which is?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Rage Against the Machine,” I say, pleased with myself that I didn’t freeze while trying to think of an answer.
She chuckles. “That makes sense. The being angry at your dad, listening to protest songs.” She shakes her head. “It all makes sense. Let me guess, you also play video games?”
I quickly glance at her, careful to keep my eyes on the road. “On occasion.”
“Oh really?” she inquires. “Please tell me you’re not one of those Call of Duty assholes?”
“No. Stardew Valley,” I declare, grinning.
“What?”
Chuckling, I explain. “It’s a cozy farming game that fulfills the millennial dream of leaving the rat race, becoming self-sufficient, and owning your own home.
” I take a breath and tap my fingers. “It’s my other escape from the soul sucking reality of life since sometimes reading doesn’t always work.
Like this last week, I spent a lot of time playing to dissociate. ”
Out of the corner of my eye, she winces. Sighing, she says in a low voice, “I’m sorry for that, by the way. I pushed you, and I shouldn’t have. We promised to be harmless, and I harmed you in the stupidest way possible.”
I blink and sit up straighter. My mind races as I consider what she’s saying. Is this actually an apology? Or is she baiting me into admitting that I was the one in the wrong, which will lead to me having to apologize?
“Aidan?” Charlotte asks, her voice growing softer. “Are you ok?”
“Y-y-yeah, yeah,” I stutter. “I just, I’m sorry too.”
Her forehead crinkles. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
“I was a dick toward you.”
Now it’s her turn to blink, except rapidly. “You weren’t a dick. You were defending yourself. If anything, I was a bitch to you.”
“What are you talking about?” I counter. “I shut you down when you were trying to help me with something rather emotional, and I shouldn’t have done that. I ran away from you and didn’t say anything.”
She lets out a groan and brings her fingers to her temple. “I’m pretty sure I was the who brought it up. Why do you think you’re to blame?”
“My father,” I reply sheepishly. Heat flushes up my face, and I’m sure a blush blooms on my cheeks. “My therapist would be so disappointed with me right now.”
She chuckles and adjusts the sweatshirt on her shoulders. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”
“So just to confirm, you’re not mad at me?” I ask her, turning briefly. “See, I have to confirm, otherwise my anxiety will twist it somehow to make it seem like you’re actually still mad at me.”
Charlotte shakes her head. “I’m not mad. If anything, you should be mad at me for pushing you to reconcile with your dad just because it’ll make me feel better about the trauma I’m still experiencing over my dad.”
A corner of my mouth turns upward. “I’m not mad.”
She presses her lips together. “But are you disappointed?”
I snort. We come to a light, and I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. “You know, I know a really great therapist who could help you with your trauma.”
She runs a hand through the strands of her ponytail and groans. “I can’t afford it. My insurance sucks. My deductible is outrageously high, because I can only afford the lowest premium.”
I nod, and we grow silent. The only sounds being the road noise, the windshield wipers, and the next several songs on my playlist. We stay like this until we pull in front of the first house.
I reach to open the car door, saying, “I got it,” at the same time as Charlotte. Before I can tell her to stay, we’re at the back of my car, raindrops dotting our sweatshirts. The rain hasn’t let up, and it won’t stop any time soon.
“Go back in the car; I got this,” I say.
Opening the trunk, she remarks, “Nope. I got it.” She holds up a hand to stay me. “Don’t say anything else before we reenact something from Abbott and Costello.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and climb back into the car, feeling useless. In the rear-view mirror, I watch her shove the stakes of the sign into the soaked earth.
I expect a conflict when Charlotte slides back in the car, shaking off water droplets from her hair and clothes, but she only flashes me a smile and says, “You do the next one?”
“Alright,” I reply.
We settle into a rhythm. I drive to the next house, and we alternate who sticks the signs in.
I let her drive the conversation, which thankfully, she keeps light.
She tells me more about growing up in Summerville, and she gives me the low down of the apparent counter movement led by the parent of my least liked student.
As we drive around the county, the anxiety about the argument we had earlier this week fades and courage builds in my chest. I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask Charlotte out on a date.
I can do this.
I tell myself that I will introduce the subject at the next red light. But then each light we hit ends up being green. As we fly through each intersection, I reassure myself again that the next intersection is going to be a red light. Each time, I’m disappointed.
Before I know it, we’re back at her door. A sinking feeling sits in my gut. One opportunity left.
“Thanks for helping me with the signs,” Charlotte remarks once I put the car in park right outside of the bookstore.
“Of course,” I say.
Do it now!
“So, uh, Aidan,” Charlotte begins, fiddling with the strap of her seat belt. “You, um, like coffee, right?”
“Yes,” I reply, tilting my head to the side and studying her. She knows I like coffee. “Why do you ask?”
“Good. Good.” She presses her lips together. “Do like getting coffee with other people?”
“Yes, on occasion, I do like to drink coffee with other people.” I suck in a breath of air, summoning courage. “Would you like to get coffee with me sometime?”
“I would.” She chuckles. “I’d like that a lot.”
I nod, grateful. “Awesome. When are you free? Weekends work best for me. Because school.”
Charlotte sighs with relief, although I’m not entirely sure why she would be stressed. “Um, maybe Saturday? At eleven?”
“That works.”
“Triple C?”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll meet you there,” I reply, smiling.
She nods and reaches to open her car door. “Great. I’ll see you Saturday at eleven at Triple C.” Without another word, she slips out of the car and into the bookstore.
As she waves from the window, the joy and sense of accomplishment hit me like a freight train.
I have a date with Charlotte Ferguson. Fuck yeah!